


Turn of the Season

by enkelimagnus



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Beau is Smart, Canon Compliant, Gen, Jewish Caleb Widogast, Rosh HaShana | Jewish New Year, Sad Caleb Widogast, Team Human, Xhorhouse (Critical Role)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:42:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26492821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enkelimagnus/pseuds/enkelimagnus
Summary: The oak tree of the Xhorhaus starts to shed some leaves.Caleb realizes what time of the year it is, and Beau is a slightly unexpected ally.
Relationships: Beauregard Lionett & Caleb Widogast, The Mighty Nein & Caleb Widogast
Comments: 12
Kudos: 91





	Turn of the Season

**Author's Note:**

> Shana Tovah to all my fellow Jews out there!
> 
> New Year's right around the corner so of course I had to make a little Rosh Hashanah fic for our fav Ashkie. 
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy this!

The first red leaves had fallen onto the stone floor. Caleb stood in the middle of the garden of the Xhorhaus, staring, almost unseeing at the red-orange leaves. His heart beat hard, fast, overwhelming his senses. It was the only thing he could hear.

He’d forgotten. 

Rosohna and Xhorhas’ seasons were different from the ones Caleb had known growing up. Spring didn’t have many wildflowers. Snow rarely ever fell. The trees didn’t have leaves that turned colors. They barely had leaves in the first place. Xhorhas had the same calendar, maybe, but they didn’t have Harvest’s Close, because there was no harvest to close. 

So he’d forgotten. 

Maybe that had been a blessing. He’d been able to focus on his work, on his spells, on the group. The lack of seasonal changes had kept the dread away. Until right this moment, where his brain was already rushing to calculate how close Rosh Hashanah was, matching the usual calendar to the Hebrew one in seconds. 

Five days. 

Five days until the new year. Five days until he was supposed to ask for repentance, even if he knew that his name was forever bloated out, no matter how many years the Lord gave him to repent himself. He remembered the first fall after what he’d done. He remembered waiting to be struck down. He was still waiting.

Days like these reminded him of his childhood. Fessuran would come with its promise of a world that changed color to fit him, of a birthday, and of the Yamim Noraim, the Days of Awe that made his family and his village sing and rejoice, and pray and eat a lot, and then not at all, and then a lot again.

He walked over to the edge of the garden, not far from the shrine and grabbed the stone there, looking over the shadowed city. This was home now. Foreign and lacking the golden edge of Zemnian light. But home nonetheless. 

He still had many things to ask forgiveness for. But he guessed that in the last year, he’d bettered himself, scrubbed some of the stains from his soul with the help of the Nein. He’d uncursed Veth. He’d been by these people’s sides. He’d vowed to make sure Ikithon would never hurt someone again. 

He hadn’t forgiven him, or Astrid and Eodwulf, or even himself. But he’d mended some of the holes he’d made, he guessed. 

And for once, it… was less dreadful to think of standing in front of his machzor and a lit candle on Yom Kippur, white and pale and fasting and waiting for judgement to come. Because he’d maybe have some good to balance out the wicked.

He wondered how he would hide it from the Nein this year. The year before, he’d been too wrapped up in Zadash, the Gentleman and the Labenda Swamps to practice. But this year, there was nothing standing in his way, no excuse not to do it, do right, for once. He didn’t keep kosher, he killed and he hurt, he didn’t care for himself enough. He didn’t keep the Shabbat, only occasionally lit a candle under the guise of wanting light. He never prayed.

He had no kippah, no tallis, no tefillin. He only had a machzor because he’d found one and stolen it. He had nothing but candles, and his mind, his mouth that still knew the words of his childhood prayers and traditions. He had nothing. 

No, he had something. Shame, and guilt. They both kept him from doing more and pressured it to do more. He felt both unworthy of his parents’ religion and unworthy because he wouldn’t keep the traditions alive. He felt shame for knowing more about the Traveler than he did about his G-d.

He sighed, eyes closed. Someone cleared their throats.

He turned around, surprised. Someone had sneaked up on him. It was, of course, Beauregard. 

She had that serious look on her face that she never had very often, the one that told him she would settle next to him and awkwardly tell him something surprisingly wise and incredibly specific regarding his situation, punch his arm and leave as fast as she’d come and as silently.

She walked up to him and settled by his side, looking at the city as well. 

The silence was almost overwhelming. It was awkward and uncomfortable and Caleb wanted to break it but he didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t explain easily the feelings knotted up in his throat, the ones that kept him from really speaking now.

After a moment, she moved, taking something out of her pocket and sliding it over to him. His fingers found soft velvet. 

He looked down, frowning. It was a small sort of bag, folded like an envelope, with a little loop tie around a brass button. It was bulky in strange places. He opened it. The items fell into his hands and everything he touched felt deeply familiar. He pulled them all out.

A kippah, dark blue. A tallis, traditional white and blue matching the kippah, the atarah shining softly with age and use. Tefillin boxes, scuffed and used. He blinked.

“Saw them in a pawn shop,” Beau said simply. “No one knew what they were.”

“But you did?” 

Beau shrugged. “I’m Cobalt Soul, man. There’s a lot I know.” 

That made sense, he guessed. “How did you know that..”

“That book. In Hebrew. There are very few kinds of people who would own that,” Beau explained. “And I remembered where you came from. Blumenthal. It wasn’t complicated to put two and two together. And I also saw your dick a couple of times.” 

Caleb blushed at that, embarrassed. “Ja, okay. It wasn’t that hard then.” And that was dangerous. 

“It wasn’t hard because I’m a fucking monk of knowledge, dude.” 

Caleb chuckled, and nodded. “Thank you, then. For this.” He clutched at the tallis. He would never let go of that. 

“It’s no big deal,” Beau shrugged. They both knew it was. “I know it’s an important time of the year, pretty soon. We could persuade Caduceus to try making some traditional food, if you remember how to make it,” she pointed out. “You don’t have to tell anyone else. But none of them would care.” 

She pushed herself away from the stone edge, looking at him. He looked back, truly right into her eyes for once. She was smiling, just a hint. 

“Happy New Year, then?” She asked as she was leaving.

“It’s Shanah Tovah,” Caleb called back after her. He turned back to the bag and the things in front of him, important, powerful things. 

He would have six new names to add to those he prayed during the Days of Repentance this year. Maybe this year’s celebrations wouldn’t be so lonely and sad, after all.


End file.
